Hunger (5 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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I walked past him, as if I did not know he was there. He came up close behind me and grabbing my arm, whirled me around. “Hey, baby,” he said, and then spoke no more. I flung myself at him and fastened upon his neck. He struggled, but I drew his blood quickly and violently, quenching my dark thirst. As he grew quiescent in my arms, I fed slower, savoring each drop. It was ecstasy; it was hell, it was life. I pulled myself from him, shuddering when the withdrawal was complete. He was unconscious, but his pulse was strong, much stronger than Bill's had been last night. Ordinarily, I would have taken more, but I felt safer only taking exactly what I needed.
I left him lying where I had found him. When he came to in a few minutes, I would be gone. Chances are, he wouldn't remember the incident, and due to the darkness of the alley he would probably not even recall my face. And I doubted that he would report the attack to anyone; after all, who would believe him?
As I turned away and began to walk back down the alley, I heard a stifled gasp coming from where he lay. There, I thought with satisfaction, he was even stronger than I thought and was already reviving. I hurried back to the more populated streets, and passing a store, peered in the window at my reflection. Other than my shining eyes, there was no telltale trace of my activity. I removed a tissue from my pocket and wiped my mouth anyway. I fluffed my hair around my face and headed back to the hotel. I was glutted with blood and would want to sleep soon. It had been a successful hunt, I thought, and moved languidly through the streets. Snow had begun to fall; I raised my face to the night sky and felt the brush of flakes on my cheeks, like the tentative touch of a baby's hand: so beautiful, so pure, and so soon gone.
“Did you have a nice walk, Miss Griffin?” Frank asked as he greeted me at the door.
“Yes, it's a lovely evening. Good night.” When I got to my room, I completed my evening rituals; the locking of the door, the pulling of the drapes. After tonight's feeding, I should sleep well and wake tomorrow, refreshed and renewed. I turned off my restless and questioning mind, fell upon the bed and slept.
Chapter 4
M
y sleep was disturbed by the ringing of the phone. Someone must have switched the ringer back on while cleaning the room and the unknown caller was desperately trying to avoid the answering machine. The phone would ring four times, then stop; this pattern repeated every five minutes or so. I half remembered hearing this as I slept and wondered how long it had continued. No matter, I was awake now; I had slept through the entire night and the next day. The sun was setting as I left my bed and I felt a new strength flow through my body. I had experienced this feeling many times before in my life, but it always left me in awe. I was young, strong and prepared for life. I felt like I did indeed possess the powers my kind were purported to have: flying, shape changing, dissolving into a mist, none of these seemed out of my grasp tonight. This wonder of my existence had kept me sane through my many years and lives; without it, I would have persisted in finding a way to die.
The phone rang again as I unlocked the bedroom door and entered the bathroom. I let it ring; they had been calling for a while, they would call back. I inserted my contacts, turned on the lights and sat in front of the mirror to brush my hair, which seemed electric and vibrant, with a life of its own. I could feel each stroke of the brush tingling from the roots to the ends. As I applied my makeup, I noticed that the feeding of last night had revitalized my skin; it was firm, smooth and without blemish. I felt perfected in every way, and ready to conquer the world.
As I dressed, I planned the evening. I would begin to stake out new territory, visit a few of the newer clubs that had opened. Although last night had provided satisfactory sustenance, it had not given me the contact I had grown to appreciate through years of feeding at the Ballroom. I still needed the interplay, the seduction; I wanted to ignite the spark of desire in a man's eyes. I hadn't the companionship of others like me and although I knew that at least one must exist, all I had of him were the small fragments of a dream I would like to forget.
This time when the phone rang, I answered it.
“Deirdre, don't hang up, please.”
“I received your message, Max,” I said coldly. “I won't be back.”
“No, wait. Let me explain. You owe me that, after all these years.” He sounded sincere enough, and yet I did not want to fall into the trap of trusting him again.
“Do it quickly, then, and get it over with. I have plans for this evening.”
“Deirdre, love, I made a mistake. I'm only human, you know.”
“And you know I'm not. Now get on with it, or let me go.” I doubted he had much to say at this point.
“Look, I can't talk about this over the phone. Come and see me tonight and if I can't make a reasonable apology you have my blessing to go for my throat.”
In spite of the anger, I laughed. “Too bad you didn't make that offer last night, when I really needed it. You could have saved me a bit of trouble.”
He didn't laugh. “I'm truly sorry, my dear. Please come tonight. It's important.”
Wearily I agreed. “Only for a moment or two, and only because I want to hear your excuses. I'll be there.”
Despite Max's attempt at reconciliation, I still wanted to pursue the plans I had been formulating. After a brief stop at the Ballroom, I would catch a cab and get a recommendation from the driver on some of the newer night spots in the city. I didn't have to feed this night, I might even be able to wait a week for my next victim, but I needed to know what alternatives I had.
I walked to the club; the snow from last night had completely disappeared and the night was bitter cold. The skies were clearer than normal and the light of the moon bathed the streets in a soft glow. I felt like I was on a holiday, somehow. I had no hunger to drive me, no needs to satisfy; tonight I could be merely human.
Larry must have been off this evening, the doorman was a stranger to me, but since it was early, and a Sunday, I had no trouble getting in. I mentioned that I was here to see Max, and he nodded. He had been expecting me, he said. Max had some urgent business that had just come up but I was to wait in his office. As I was escorted to the room, I thought that the urgent business was probably nonexistent, a ploy to throw me off balance, a chance to get me thinking about Max in familiar, comfortable surroundings. As I settled into the couch, with a glass of wine from a newly opened bottle, I struggled between anger at his self–assurance and tenderness at being completely accepted by him. He knew me so well; how could any of his ploys fail to work?
 
Max and I had met during the mid-60's when I had been working as the night shift waitress at a truck stop. It had been one of the more ideal jobs for me, so many people passing through at all hours of the night, so many warm, anonymous bodies to take in the darkness.
I can remember the odors and the tastes of that time vividly: the warm fumes of gasoline filtering through the summer nights, the musty smell of marijuana that clung to the uniforms of the other waitresses, the odd and individual flavors of the blood of the drivers that passed by the truck stop regularly. Buddy had been the truck driver that night. He came through the stop once a month and always asked for me to deliver his coffee. He was dark–haired and only slightly overweight, with the plump, youthful face of a cherub. Some of the girls complained of his body odor, but he suited me just fine, and his blood had, I imagined, a sweeter flavor than most. He never complained like some others about the sharp nip I would give him during our love play and he never missed what I took.
I struggled back into my tight, pink uniform, and as I got out of his truck, he jumped out and gave me a small swat on the behind. “You serve the best coffee in the tri-state area, darlin'.”
“Thank you, Buddy.” My eyes danced as I reached up to kiss him. I adjusted his collar to hide the fang marks on his neck.
“Go easy on the hickies next time, honey. The last one you gave me lasted two weeks and the missus got suspicious.” He was smiling as he said it, proud, I thought, of our monthly liasons.
“I just can't control myself around you, Buddy.” I gave him another kiss, this one on the cheek and watched as he got back into the cab. “Drive carefully, and see you next month.”
I watched him drive away and looked at my watch. It was time for me to go off shift. I would sleep well this night.
I stopped off to deposit half of Buddy's tip in the cash register. As I walked out, Max walked in; our eyes met as we passed in the doorway. Just for that one second, I was overwhelmed with a sense of unity, a recognition of a soul within that could speak to mine. Then he blinked, the feeling faded and we went our separate ways. I thought about him as I drove to the isolated trailer in which I made my home; thought about the many years spent in a fruitless search, trying to discover someone who could share in my life, allay in some way the dark loneliness within which I existed. No spark had ever flared, until now. Not for the first time, I cursed the ill chance that made me what I was. If I could have endured the sunlight, I might have been able to stay and cultivate a relationship with this man. I was sure that, like all the others, he would be gone by tomorrow night.
When I arrived at work the next evening, however, he was waiting outside the door, and softly called my name. I smiled broadly for the mere joy of his presence.
“How did you know my name?” I asked curiously.
His voice was deep and cultured and seemed to caress my ears. “Well, for one thing, I asked your friends about you last night. And it's written as plain as day on your uniform.” He chuckled a little at my expense, but somehow I didn't mind.
“Yes, I guess it is.” I glanced at the name embroidered on the cheap dress, embarrassed because I had forgotten it was there. In reality it was no more my name than any of the others I had carried over the years. But here, at a tiny truck stop in Kansas I was known as Diane Gleason. “But,” I said with a smile, “your name isn't.”
“I'm Max,” he said briefly. “Max Hunter.” Then after a small pause, “Do you think you could get tonight off? I'll only be in town for a few more days, and I'd like to get to know you.”
One of the oldest lines in the book, I thought, but it didn't matter. He seemed so perfect.
I went into the diner and got permission to take the night off. Sincc I usually had nothing else to do, I had covered for the other waitresses more than a few times; now they could return the favor. Besides, Max had made quite an impression on them last night, and they were happy to oblige when I promised a detailed report on him the next day.
He drove me to my trailer so that I could change my clothes. I half expected him to make his move then, but he waited politely in the car until I came out, dressed in jeans and a black suede shirt, fringed and strewn with sequins. It was one of my favorite garments, but I seldom had a chance to wear it. I caught his admiring glance as I got into the car and felt that the long evenings cutting and stitching had all been worth it.
“You have a good eye for clothes, Diane. That's very attractive.” He reached over, to touch the material, I thought, but instead he stroked my cheek gently, moving his fingers softly to the base of my neck. A sweet chill ran through me and I moved toward him, waiting for his next caress. It didn't come. Instead he pulled away, leaving me confused and disappointed.
“Where shall we go?” he asked innocently, as if the contact had not been made.
I laughed at his question. “There isn't much open after dark around here, but just keep driving. We can find something to do eventually, I'm sure.” He ignored the innuendo and did as I suggested.
We drove around most of the night, stopping at a few bars, or private clubs as the law liked to call them, along the way. Mostly we talked and laughed, sharing stories of our lives and our hopes for the future. He was traveling across the country from California to the east coast, I found out, and hoped to open a restaurant or club if he could get the financing. He thought that I was something of a gypsy, moving from town to town, never staying more than a few years in any one place.
“How can you ever establish a home for yourself that way, Diane Gleason?” He was still making fun of the name on my uniform and we laughed, as if it were the funniest joke ever told. I found him charming and attractive, so different from the men I met at the truck stop, and began to wonder if I could make a mate of him. Shortly before dawn, he brought me back to the trailer, and after making arrangements to meet the next evening, kissed me quickly, his lips hard and demanding on mine.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked breathlessly.
“You are beautiful, Diane, and so alive. Who would ever have thought . . .” His voice trailed off as he buried his mouth in my hair.
“Thought what, Max?”
He held me at arms length and looked at me intently, then smiled. “That I could find a girl like you in a place like this.” He kissed me once more and let me go. “I've got to go, now. Till tomorrow.” He got into his car and sped away.
“Till tomorrow,” I repeated as I entered my trailer.
The sun was rising as I pulled the drapes and laid down on my bed. Long after I should have been asleep, I thought about Max and the evening we had spent. Formulating plans for converting him into a creature like me, I tried to remember the procedure from the countless books I had read. My own transformation was hazy, veiled in a disturbing dream, and so could offer no solution. I fell asleep composing the words to my proposal. I would offer him endless youth and life; he and I could be united forever.
We spent the next few nights together. I took a week's vacation from work, something I hadn't done in the past two years. We must have put hundreds of miles on his car, doing nothing but driving and talking. Just being with Max made me feel more human than I had in years; I was young and vibrant again, the long lonely times finally behind me. On our last night together, we found a deserted country road, miles away from everything. We lay in a field, staring at the night sky. Thinking how I wanted to preserve the moment forever: the silence, the stars and his presence, I sighed, almost involuntarily.
“I have to leave tomorrow,” he said abruptly; his words were a brutal interruption of the quiet night. “There's no way around it.”
Something in the tone of his voice angered me, a detachment, and coldness I had never heard before. “Well, you needn't sound so damned happy about it,” I snarled at him. “I knew you would only be here tor a while. You owe me nothing.”
“On the contrary, my love, I owe you a lot. You've renewed me, taken me away from my own selfish pursuits, made me feel that life may be worth living, after all. But even at that, I have to leave.” The words were properly sincere, but the voice was that of a stranger. “You could come with me, I suppose, but I have never been able to sustain a lasting relationship with anyone before; I care too much about you to give you less than you deserve. It's better to end things right now.”
I studied his profile in the moonlight, trying to etch it into my memory as I considered his words. The proposal I had rehearsed night after night would not come; I was too proud, too unsure of him. I could take him by force, change him as I had been changed, perhaps, but I wanted a willing partner, someone who could move gracefully into my existence. That partner would not be him. My perception of him as eternal companion began to fade, replaced by the vision of his face in twenty or thirty years, aging and grayed. Max would become one with all the others, those whom I touched and those who had touched me, only to be claimed by their final lover—death—while I lived on. With that thought, I let go of him, reluctantly, yet completely, condemning him to his fate and me to mine.

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